The Answer Man (23 page)

“Help him! Please. Someone just tried to suffocate him!”

“What?” one of the nurses asked in disbelief.

“He had a plastic bag over his head. Goddammit, do something!”

One nurse checked the instruments while the other refastened his oxygen mask.

Hound Dog thought she could see his chest moving. Or was it just wishful thinking?

No, she realized with relief. He was breathing.

“The janitor found him,” she said. “When I got here—”

“What janitor?”

“The one who—”

Hound Dog stopped as she realized it was the Frito-eating guy who left the cafeteria just as she entered.

She ran from the room. The elevator? No. He wouldn't have wanted to wait.

She ducked into the stairwell.

She listened.

There were running footsteps far, far below her.

It had to be him.

The elevator chimed open behind her, and she ran for it. The doors started to close before she could get there, but she wedged them open with her elbow and shoulder.

She pressed “L” and the “doors closed” buttons. She hopped impatiently as the elevator descended five floors to the lobby.

Or was he headed for the parking garage? No, not if he were looking for a quick getaway. Probably parked on the street. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a security guard at the hospital's front entrance. Someone who would help her get the son of a bitch.

She flew out of the elevator and pushed open the hospital's front doors. No security guard.

But there was the rotund man, still in his coveralls, running down the block.

She bolted after him.

He was heading toward a car. Dammit! Can't let him reach it. He wasn't getting away with this.

The man was slow, and although he had a lead, she was gaining. Almost there…

The man turned.

Hound Dog jumped and hit him with a ferocious tackle. She pounded his cheek against the asphalt sidewalk.

“You fucker!” she screamed.

He threw her off. Before she could regain her balance, he elbowed her on the side of her head. Twice. Then he hit her again, this time on the back of the neck.

A white flash. The sidewalk rushed toward her.

In what seemed like an instant, she was aware of the car starting on the street beside her.

Had she been knocked unconscious?

Still unable to move, she tried to focus on a streetlight as the car roared away.

She pulled herself to her feet. She was nauseated and woozy. A creeping darkness fogged her vision.

She stood motionless, fighting to remain conscious.

The wooziness passed.

She kicked clumps of grass growing between cracks in the sidewalk.

Goddammit!

She should have kept her distance. She could have caught the guy's license plate number and let the police pick
him up. Now she might never know who he was or why he wanted to hurt Mark.

Mark…

She sprinted back to the hospital.

Margot knocked on the door to Ken's apartment. It was a quarter to nine in the morning, and she wasn't getting an answer.

“Ken?” she called out.

She knocked again. Still no reply. She reached into her purse, pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked the door. She let herself in.

She looked around, and as she was about to close the door behind her, a strong hand gripped it. She gasped and turned to see a worn silver badge and an Atlanta P.D. photo ID card. It identified the bearer as Lieutenant Thomas Gant.

“Can I help you, ma'am?”

“Why would I need your help?”

Gant didn't reply. Instead he asked for her name and relationship to Ken.

She answered, then said, “What are you doing here?” She got a sick feeling in her stomach. “Is Ken okay?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me.”

“I don't know. That's why I'm here. I haven't heard from him, and he hasn't returned any of my calls. I was worried. What the hell is going on? Where's Ken?”

“We don't know. Why do you have his door keys?”

“He gave me a set. In case he ever lost his.”

“How long have you had them?”

“A few months.”

“How long has it been since you've seen Ken Parker?”

“We had a birthday party for him last Tuesday. What's all this about?”

Gant closed the door behind him. “If you knew where he was, would you tell me?”

She looked at him incredulously. “You think that I—”

“Did he send you here? Did you come here to pick up a few things for him? Some clothes, maybe?”

“No. I told you why I came.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did. Ms. Aronson, we've sworn out a warrant for his arrest. He's wanted in connection with a murder. We've uncovered some evidence very damaging to him, and we need to talk to him about it. The longer he stays out of sight, the worse it will be for him.”

She couldn't have heard him correctly. “A murder?”

Gant nodded.

“What evidence do you have?”

“I'm sorry, I can't discuss that.”

She slowly shook her head. “I really don't know where he is.”

“If you say so.”

“You actually think Ken killed someone?”

“He's a suspect.”

“There's no way. I
know
him. He's just incapable of that.”

“I hope you're right.”

“The hell you do.”

“Think what you want.”

“I don't need your permission to do that.”

She walked out of the apartment.

Michaelson pulled to a stop in the Carter Library parking lot. He had never been inside this learning center dedicated to the thirty-ninth president of the United States. He didn't know anyone who had. Tourists, maybe. And kids. Lots of kids.

Children poured from school buses into the white orientation building. Good, Michaelson thought. He had chosen the spot well. He wanted a lot of people around.

After all, he had an appointment with a killer.

He had made the call that morning. “We have a mutual acquaintance. Burton Sabini. I know who you are and what you've done,” he had said. “We'll meet to discuss it at ten
A
.
M
. in the courtyard at the Carter Library.”

He heard only stunned silence from the other end of the phone. Bull's-eye. He had found Sabini's partner.

It was now a good forty-five minutes before the designated meeting time, but he wanted to hide and watch for a while. He wanted to make sure Sabini's partner came alone. Normally Michaelson would have recruited a “cover” to stake the situation out and watch his back, but he didn't want to risk bringing anyone else into it. He was already into Myth Daniels for a piece of the dough, and he didn't want to split it any further.

He parked on the other side of the school buses. Here he could watch the courtyard benches without being easily seen himself.

A white van pulled up to the main entrance, and a group of senior citizens emerged. They shuffled to the sidewalk, clutching their blue and white tour tickets.

Michaelson hit the armrest control, lowering his window a few inches. He settled back in his seat. His legs were still sore from his sprint from the hospital the night before. If only Mark Bailey's girlfriend hadn't returned so soon.

Shit. Just one more thing to worry about.

The money would make it all worthwhile, he thought. All those years eating shit, doing the spying and dirty work for executives who thought they were too good for him. Until they needed him for something. Then they came crawling.

Screw 'em.

He climbed out of his car and looked around. Maybe he'd come back to the museum someday to see what all the fuss was about. Nah, probably not. He was never a big fan of Carter's.

He walked to the courtyard and ambled around the benches. How much should he ask for? Two million? Three million?

Three million.

He would negotiate from there.

Satisfied that the courtyard would be a safe and visible
meeting place, he walked back around the school buses and climbed into his car.

Something wasn't right.

It smelled…different.

He heard something behind him in the backseat. He looked in the rearview mirror.

He wasn't alone.

“You got some major heat on you, Kenbo. You're not gonna stiff me, are you?”

Ken paced across the living room of Myth's cabin, cradling the cordless phone against his shoulder. He had called Stan Warner to see if the information broker had uncovered anything. “Take it easy. What are you talking about?”

“There's a warrant out for your arrest.”

Ken could almost feel his throat closing. It had finally happened. “How do you know?”

“I got sources, all right? What I wanna know is, are you going to pay me for Sabini's info packet? I'm sitting here, looking at it, and it's a thing of beauty. But I'm afraid you're not going to have much use for it in jail.”

“I'll be in touch,” Ken choked out.

He hung up the phone.

It had to end. Enough was enough.

He heard the sound of a car outside. Myth wasn't supposed to be back until that evening.

The police?

He stepped onto the porch. It was Myth. Her Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the cabin.

As she climbed out of her car, he could see she was upset. She must have heard.

“You know about my arrest warrant?” he said.

She looked puzzled. “No,” she whispered. She sat on the edge of the wooden porch swing.

The news didn't even faze her. “Then, what is it?” he asked.

Her face was ashen. “Michaelson and I made arrangements to meet today.”

“I know. What did he say?”

“He didn't show.”

“Jesus. You think he skipped out on you? That's it, isn't it? He got the money, and he skipped out!”

“No…Ken, no.”

She looked as if she were going to be sick. He joined her on the swing.

She sounded hollow. “Michaelson's dead.”

Ken let the bombshell lie there for a moment, without poking or probing it, which would normally have been his first impulse. He was too stunned to react.

She looked away in the direction of the wooded area near the cabin. “They found him in his car at the Carter Library. Someone killed him. Stabbed him.”

“Stabbed like Sabini. Like Carlos Valez.”

Myth didn't respond.

Ken looked down. “I've had a lot of time to think out here, and I don't like what this has done to me.”

“
What's
done to you?”

“The money. What it's done to all of us. Or maybe you were like this before, I don't know. But people are dying for this goddamned money. It's not worth it. You make a good living, why are you in this?”

“Please, Ken.”

“You like it, don't you? Does it make you feel powerful, manipulating men this way? Does it?”

“No. Ken…I love you.”

“I don't like myself very much right now. Along the way I've found out some things about myself I really hate. This thing has gotten out of hand.”

“I'm sorry, Ken.”

“Give me your keys.”

“What?”

Ken snatched the keys from her limp fingers. “I'm not staying here one more minute. Let's go.”

“Where?”

He grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, and walked with her toward her Mercedes.

“I'm taking you home. I can't go back to my apartment, so I'm borrowing your car. Any objections?”

“Some.”

“Deal with them.”

Ken pulled into Myth's driveway, slowing as he neared the house. He jerked to a stop and stared at her. How could a woman this beautiful repulse him so much?

“Tell me something,” he said. “Why did Sabini ask for me personally? How did he know me?”

“I don't know. Maybe you did some work for his company?”

“No. Never.”

“Who knows? He could have heard about you anywhere.”

Not likely, Ken thought. “I'll get in touch with you later.”

“Shouldn't we go to the police?”

“Not yet. First I need to check on some things myself. When I decide to go to the police, you'll hear from me.”

“You despise me, don't you?”

Right on target, he thought. As usual. “I can't trust you,” he said sharply.

She spoke in a desperate tone he hadn't heard from her before. “What can I do? What can I say?”

“Nothing. That's just it.” He looked down. “I've been thinking about Carlos Valez. Maybe someone killed him to
protect
me. It was important I stayed alive to finish Sabini's training, wasn't it?”

“Ken, you can't believe that
I
—”

“I don't know. But I do know you were supposed to see Michaelson, and now he's dead. What am I supposed to think?”

“I don't know,” she replied weakly.

He leaned forward and opened her door. “Good-bye, Myth.”

She was trying to effect a stoic, hardened expression, but the tears on her cheeks betrayed her. She climbed out of the car and ran up her front steps.

He wanted to think that she actually gave a damn, but he couldn't. He slammed the Mercedes into reverse and backed out of the driveway.

She had played him for a fool, and the fact that he had seen it coming didn't make it any easier. He had been willing to sell his self-respect for the first serious offer that came along. He could never forgive himself for that. He could never forgive her.

He pulled onto the street and raced down the block.

Why had Sabini chosen him? There had to be some link, some connection. Maybe the cops could find it, but they might be happy to nail him to the wall for Sabini's death and let it go at that. Going to the police would only be a last resort.